violette1st_fanonfandomcom-20200214-history
CODY AND JAKE IN GEORGIA
Jake: Wassup, Team DO5! Today, me and Cody are at Atlanta, Georgia for a good time! Cody: I hate Jake! Why do I have to be with you? Jake: Because I can! The 2 go to Coca-Cola headquarters Jake: I will give you $50 if you bring a Pepsi in here. Cody: Okay I got it. Now wh- The Pepsi blows up Cody: WHAT THE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECK?!?!?!?!?!?! Man: NO PEPSI ALLOWED!!! The 2 go to Rich the Kid's house Plug walk (plug walk, plug, plug) I don't even understand how the fuck my plug talk (Huh? what, what?) Pick him up in a space coupe, I don't let my plug walk (Skrrt, pull up in a space coupe) New freak, had to cut my other lil' bitch off (ooh, ooh, lil' bitch) 50K, you could come and book a nigga for a plug walk You can't reach me (what?) Space coupe like E.T. (E.T.) It's the plug tryna call me (skrrt, skrrt) I was up trappin' early in the morning (plug) Ooh, on the wave like a du-rag (du-rag) Pussy nigga callin' for his boo back (pussy) Plug walk, Gucci on my shoe racks (Gucci) Walk up in the house, hit a rat-a-tat 'Til I ran into the plug ('til I ran into) 'til I ran into the mud (to the mud) I done ran into some racks, I done ran into your girl ( 'to your girl) Why the plug show me love? (Show me love) I done came up from a dub (huh?) Plug walk (plug walk, plug, plug) I don't even understand how the fuck my plug talk (Huh? what, what?) Pick him up in a space coupe, I don't let my plug walk (Skrrt, pull up in a space coupe) New freak, had to cut my other lil' bitch off (ooh, ooh, lil' bitch) 50K, you could come and book a nigga for a plug walk Big ol' Bentley, it's a spaceship (woah) Call me on my phone, I don't say shit (what?) I make money when I talk (when I talk) I'm a boss, take a loss (I'm a what?) I could introduce you to the plug (to the plug) Bitch, this ain't no Henny in my cup (lil' bitch) Stayed down, now the racks up (racks up) She gon' let me fuck, ass up (ass up) Plug, I stuck kis in the Louis V (Louis V) Fuck 12, I’m a G, ain't no stoppin' me (ain't no stoppin' me) And my wrist is on overseas (drip) Rich nigga, you can't talk to me (rich) Plug walk (plug walk, plug, plug) I don't even understand how the fuck my plug talk (Huh? what, what?) Pick him up in a space coupe, I don't let my plug walk (Skrrt, pull up in a space coupe) New freak, had to cut my other lil' bitch off (ooh, ooh, lil' bitch) 50K, you could come and book a nigga for a plug walk Cody: That was fire! Jake: My ass! Jake blows up the house Cody: YOU STUPID TEENAGER!!! The 2 go to WSB-TV 2 of Atlanta Cody: Tell us a story! News Reporter: You sure? It's kinda scary! Jake: Yes! I wanna see Cody pee in his pants! Cody: SHUT UP!!! In the fall of 1987, local news channel WSB-TV 2 of Atlanta, Georgia, was attempting to fill a scheduling gap in their Sunday morning lineup. After a few solicitations by local business owners, they decided to allow the young Reverend Marly Sachs to take the available hour block to do a religiously themed show. It premiered October 18th with little promotion. The show was standard religious fare and consisted of the reverend sitting in a simple chair reading passages from the Bible to the camera and discussing their interpretation and significance to our modern, day-to-day life. The show received a reasonable number of viewers and continued to be shown into early December. It was then that the studio began to receive extremely strange complaints from viewers of, "Words of Light with the Rev. Marly Sachs". The calls were from women (and women only), who vaguely referred to uncomfortable feelings they had at very specific intervals during the program. They described feelings of nausea, back pain, dizziness and blurred vision. These callers, for no discernible reason, were convinced that it was the viewing of this program that was causing these symptoms. It was later determined after three weeks of complaints that these "feelings" were happening at roughly twelve minute intervals during the course of the program. The small studio staff checked all recording equipment, both audio and video, and found nothing faulty. When the Reverend was made aware of these incidents, he merely shrugged and stated, cryptically, that, "Some can’t handle the voice of God...” The head of the studio, at a loss to explain the cause of these complaints, decided to continue running the program. By February, viewership had dropped sharply and it was decided to pull the plug on the show. The studio head figured it would be more prudent to spend as much time as possible on the news story that had the other two local news networks a-buzz: the miscarriage epidemic. Starting sometime in November, the number of healthy pregnant women miscarrying in the Atlanta metropolitan area had reached over three-hundred. The CDC could find no discernible cause for this terrifying occurrence. The Reverend took the show's cancellation with what could only be described as abject indifference. When informed, he made no protest, merely nodded, almost knowingly. He left the studio after the last episode was filmed without so much as a word and dropped off the face of the earth. No one ever heard from him again, not his former congregation or any member of the church. The studio moved on, filling the slot with an infomercial and continued to concentrate on the miscarriage story. A year and a half later, an intern at the WSB studios discovered the tapes of the "Words of Light" and began going through them in an attempt to find stock footage for an upcoming piece the station was doing on the impact religion had on the city. The Atlanta Incident (as the miscarriage epidemic became known in medical journals) petered out three months after the studio cancelled Reverenced Sachs' show and had already began to fade from the public consciences. As the intern went through the tapes, he accidentally made a disturbing discovery about the footage. While attempting to stop one recording at ten minutes, and forty-five seconds, he mistakenly jammed the fast-forward button down. While the footage whizzed by, he attempted to pry up the button with a screwdriver. Just as he succeeded, the tape stopped at thirty-two minutes and one second. The intern actually fell out of his chair when he looked up at what was frozen on the screen: the image of a badly decomposed severed head filling up the entire frame. After he collected himself, he moved the film back a few frames, then forward and realized that his mind was not playing tricks on him. He began going through the rest of the recording and soon discovered that at exactly twelve minute intervals the image would appear for one frame. Thinking it some practical joke being played on the new guy, he presented it to one of the film technicians, ready to be mocked. The technician was just as puzzled as him. No one had touched the footage since the cancellation of the show. After the studio had closed for the night, the intern convinced the tech to help him go through all the tapes of the "Words of Light". They discovered that every single episode had this same horrifying anomaly. They also realized that as the show progressed the image had become more disgusting, as maggots began to eat away at the loose flesh and pieces of hair and skin seemed to have fallen off exponentially. The tech made clear to the intern that what they were seeing was technically impossible, since the film itself showed absolutely no signs of splicing. And he himself had been at every filming of the show and knew of no time when this image could have been inserted into the frame. All of this was presented to the studio head, who, fearing some kind of backlash over allowing this to get on the air, ordered all the tapes destroyed. He told the intern and tech that he had no interest in knowing who did it at this point, only that, "… covering their collective asses is all that’s important now." He demanded that they mention this to no one. The tech easily moved on, remembering the incident as a darkly funny personal anecdote, but the intern wouldn’t let it go. He made copies of as many tapes as he could before they were wiped, and took them to see if he could find anything else in them that might point to who did this or why they would. A week later he attempted to rope the tech into helping him again, saying that he believed he had discovered something even more disturbing than the images themselves: when the single frames were edited together in chronological order, the head's mouth appeared to be moving as if trying to form words. The tech, fearing for his job, told him to get rid of the copies and to not talk about it again. A week later, police responded to a 911 call made by an elderly woman in one of the Atlanta suburbs at dusk. She had heard horrible noises coming from her next door neighbor’s house where a young couple lived. She told the emergency responder that the wife was pregnant and that she was terrified that something had happened. When the officers arrived on the scene twenty minutes later they found no lights on in the windows and the front door ajar. They moved in slowly and made their way into the living room. Inside they found a young woman, dead, with her abdomen slashed open. The wound was jagged and a trail of blood led from the body to the couch on the far end of the room. There sat her husband, the studio intern, naked, the corpse of his unborn child at his feet, dying. In his hand he held the rusty piece of metal siding he had used to gut his pregnant wife. The television was on and playing an eighteen-second loop of silent footage of a decomposing head mouthing some unintelligible words. The story at the police precinct to this day goes that the intern kept saying under his breath, over and over again as they led him away: "The light of God calls them...” Cody: OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Cody blows up the studio Jake: YOU IDIOT!!! LET'S GO BACK TO MARYLAND!!! Cody: Wait! Let's listen to a story in Virginia first! Jake: Fine! As a child I was always told to avoid the woods. To stay away from the old lumber mill. It was a silly request, my parents knew, since everything they ever warned me against I would by nature do the opposite. I wasn't a complicated child. My parents should have known better. It was the summer between 6th and 7th grade, when you leave your childhood behind. Everyone seemed to be drifting away from each other. Even my best friend, Ben, started to take an interest in girls — one named Hanna, to be specific — and I hadn't seen him hardly at all anymore, not since they began seeing each other a few months back. My other pals were discovering new cliques to hang out with, and with each passing day we were becoming more jocks and dweebs and gamers than just “us.” We all noticed this, and decided that before we began our first year of junior high, we'd have one last adventure together. There was no question. The lumber mill. We'd heard the stories of old farmhands from back around the turn of the century, from just before the mill closed. Some entrepreneur had made a fortune on creosote back East, and decided to "spread the wealth" by harvesting the woodlands here in his hometown. It went well, until whispers of disappearing workers and mysterious accidents proved real. Within four months, the mill shuttered its doors-- more like abandoned, as no one knew anyone left to operate it-- and soon it was reclaimed by the landscape as it stood rotting in the darkened forest for a hundred years, untouched and avoided by the locals. Over time, its legend had grown amongst the teenagers. "Our Little Roanoke," they'd call it, referencing the strange story we'd all read in our American History class every semester. An abandoned colony in the Carolinas. An abandoned mill in the woods. In both, their residents vanished without warning, like haunted memories of half-remembered nightmares. That night, we packed our gear. It was a long hike. By midnight, we'd gotten turned around several times, and Ben was starting to worry we were lost. The woods were sprawling and unpopulated, and we were on private land so no one would know we were out here. Finally, we saw it, glowing faintly in the moonlight like some Aztec ruin. We could make out the crumbling stone walls overgrown with kudzu and some rusted hulks in the shadows, covered in weeds. When we snuck closer, the rusted things became more clear-- ancient saw blades and machinery, now silent, once meant for the trees that long since towered over them. No one had lived here for a very, very long time. The silence. God, the silence. Even the crickets and nightingales seemed to know to avoid this awful place. Ben tried to spook us, insisting that the parallels between the mill and the original Roanoke were not coincidental. That the original Roanoke colony, the one that disappeared when early settlers came with extra supplies to find the village completely abandoned without warning or explanation, had not really disappeared. “They just moved inland, in secret,” Ben said. They did it because they'd found something that drew them into the forest, the forest we were now in. Something powerful. Something in the darkness. I'd like to say his teasing didn't work, but when the moon finally dipped below the horizon and the shade of the ancient dead elms surrounding us turned even our flashlights into weak useless beams against the pitch blackness of that place, Ben's words began to sink in. We trudged onward in the dark under the pall of his echoing words, the four of us stunned into a panicky quietude. "Croatoan is all the settlers found on Roanoke when the settlers vanished. A word carved hastily into the bark of a tree, a meaningless word, nothing more," Ben said. "Croatoan is what they found. It's what drew them here." "Shut up," our other friend Craig said meekly. Still, we ventured deeper. The inside of the mill was somehow even darker, like it was eating up the glow of our flashlights. Feeding off it, growing bolder. Craig was too scared to enter and said he'd wait outside in what starlight still shone. We weren't so scared. We weren't. We should have been. There was a shout of excitement up ahead. As if by fate, Ben discovered a hidden chamber near the back of the mill, one that was obscured by kudzu. He was already challenging our other friend, Nigel. “Do it, Nigel. You can almost see the bottom. Don’t be a pussy,” Ben said. “I’m not jumping down there! Stop it, man!” Nigel shot back, his quavering voice betraying his fear. As I followed behind them, I nearly tripped into a gaping shaft that seemed to appear beneath us from nowhere. The one Ben wanted Nigel to jump into. Surely he was kidding. But Ben had turned deadly serious. "This shaft leads to a mine. A cave. This is where they did it. This is what brought them here," he intoned with sudden gravity. “Did what?” I sneered unconvincingly. He didn’t respond. The shaft was an abyss. A bottomless nothing. Squinting as hard as we could, we could see only emptiness. Well,almost nothing. As my eyes adjusted, I thought I could make out... a grey shape. A rock perhaps, on the distant earthen floor below. I could swear I felt a faint, mildewed breeze blowing up from the cavern, puffing sickeningly on my face. And then the grey shape… did it move? "When did you become such an expert on the mill, Ben?" I jeered. He didn't respond or change his expression, which remained graven. I wasn't expecting that. It was unsettling. I decided to go back and check on Craig, who was no doubt feeling regretful over not joining us inside. I also wanted to get away from that horrible shaft, that seemed to breathe hungrily as I gazed within. And Ben. He was starting to get to me with that talk of Roanoke. When I stumbled my way back to the exterior of the mill, I called out. “Craig?” There was no answer. I thought he might have gone around the side of the mill. As I took a step forward to continue my search, I gasped and nearly lost my footing. At first I thought it was Craig himself, lurking in the weeds to trip me, to frighten me. I caught myself and wheeled around to find... a flashlight. Craig's flashlight. The batteries were gone. My heart began to pound. As if on cue, the inky blackness intensified around my vision as it blurred with the first of many tears. This was no place to be without a light, especially alone. I whirled back to the mill. The blood surging through my chest throbbed heavily in my ears, creating a rapid chuff-chuff, chuff-chuff that made it seem as if the lumberyard had sprung to life around me without the aid of its former, long-dead masters. I leapt over another old saw blade, but in my haste I cut my leg on its rusted teeth and shredded my jeans, crying out in pain. I could have sworn I heard a cry that was not my own echo back. The stinging in my leg was dulled by sheer adrenaline. I needed to find Ben. I needed to find Craig. We needed to leave. I heard him before I saw him. A rhythm, in time with my hammering heartbeat. Was he singing? Why was the chorus so short? Three syllables. No, two. Da-dudum. Da-dudum. "Ben?!" I shouted. The chant paused, but barely enough to notice. He was ignoring me. I followed his voice. It was clearer now what he was saying. It was what he had been saying all night, but more concisely. It wasn't a chorus, but a word. I finally understood him, just as I saw him shove Nigel into the shaft. "Ben! What are you--" He whirled around. Ben was gone. His eyes may as well have been hollow stalks on a snail's head, empty of comprehension. His lips formed the word once again, three syllables mashed into two. Da-dudum. Strangely, as I reeled from the horror unfolding before me, my thoughts turned elsewhere. To earlier that summer. How I'd never seen Ben’s new girlfriend after that first June night they spent together, when they left to explore the woods. And how he never said where he was going those many summer evenings after, when he snuck out alone, and I covered for him so he could be with “her.” Back when he began acting strange. When we began to drift apart. And then there was the grey shape at the bottom of the shaft. With Nigel, now there were two. perhaps three, with Craig. It might have been the terror swirling through my veins and leaking from the wound in my leg. But I swear I saw something the color of burnt firewood crawl up from the abyss behind him. Reaching out into the night. Made from it. With a grey shape in its teeth. "I found it," Ben croaked quietly, interrupting his mantra. As if compelled against his will, his lips curled again into the ominous word, slavering wildly like a ravenous dog. Carved into his forehead, the same word, dark rivulets running down his screaming face like crimson tears. Da-dudum. Da-dudum. Croatoan. Category:Fanfic Category:DaddyOFive